


Bloodmoon

by vvitchering (Witchering)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Feral Behavior, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Witchers, Found Family, Gen, Monster of the Week, The Witcher Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchering/pseuds/vvitchering
Summary: Set in an alternate universe where Wolf School witchers travel in packs rather than alone. Jaskier has been traveling with Geralt and his brothers for a while when he's suddenly forced to reckon with dark secrets that have been kept hidden for centuries. A story about witchers, wolves, monsters, and a bard in over his head.
Comments: 61
Kudos: 482





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes, I made up like 90% of the witcher lore here. Some of the potions, like Swallow, are canon, but there aren't any that make them go feral (as far as I know) so I had to make one up. This is also my first time writing Eskel and Lambert, so I hope I was able to do them justice. There aren't any established ships represented here because I wanted to focus more on story for once! But it can be read as Geraskier, or even Jaskier / Everyone, if you squint.

"Witchers of the Wolf School travel in packs. There’s strength in numbers and plenty of coin to be had for the bigger contracts they can handle as a team. The Path is less harsh, less painful, with brothers at their backs.

Wolves lack the ferocity of their Bear and Griffin cousins and the targeted finesse of the Cats. Which isn’t to say an individual wolf isn’t dangerous. Even a lone wolf has teeth and claws. But their true strength lies in their bonds with each other; in their ability to coordinate and hunt as though they were a single entity. No other school trains witchers as individual parts of a whole. A wolf relies on his pack for support not only in battle, but throughout life on The Path. 

Occasionally there are times when the lust for blood is needed. The beast is too large or too powerful, or simply requires more than the wolves can muster. There’s another reason they travel together. Another reason the Wolf School is unique in the witcher culture. A pack is needed to monitor the potential use of more  _ extreme _ decoctions.

The recipe for Bloodmoon isn’t written down in any field guide or alchemy collection. It’s passed from master to initiate in hushed, solemn tones. All wolves know it and all equally fear the knowledge. It strips away what humanity remains within them after the trials, leaving behind something raw and animalistic. It trades sanity and reason for unchecked power and feral instinct. A wolf under the influence of this potion truly becomes the monster the rest of the world fears witchers to be.

It’s a last resort for instances where death is assured, but the fight must be won, regardless of the cost."

\-- H. Raein, “Walking The Path: Observations on Witcher Culture”

* * *

Geralt isn’t sure what they’re hunting. It’s big, that much he’s certain of. Big enough that its wiped out entire herds of livestock on its own and left the surrounding population terrified to leave their homes and fearful of their livelihoods. The posting for the beast sat untouched for months as no hunter dared risk their life to stop it. It’s much too dangerous a contact for even a seasoned witcher to take on alone. Thankfully, Geralt is very seldom alone. 

Eskel thinks it could be a mutated fiend. The tracks seem similar enough and the behavior matches, but they’re hundreds of miles from fiend territory and the sheer size of the creature makes Geralt reasonably sure they’re not dealing with a simple freak of nature. Lambert offers no speculation and instead watches them bicker, thrilled that, for once, he’s not the cause of the tension in the group.

Jaskier ignores them all and focuses intently on tuning his lute. His job would come post-hunt, when it was safe for him to poke and prod around the beast’s corpse and create exciting stories about its demise while the witchers claimed their trophy and harvested any parts of value. 

He looks up from the tuning pegs when Geralt makes a frustrated sound and abruptly storms out of the camp, muttering something about finding the damn thing himself since Eskel is so keen on sitting around theorizing instead. 

Jaskier remembers what it means to have siblings and so is quite familiar with the look of exasperation on Eskel’s face as he watches his brother stomp away into the woods.

“Not gonna go after him?” Lambert asks, his usual shit-eating grin spread across his face.

Eskel sighs.

“Nah, let him walk it off. He’s too damn prideful about that bestiary he calls a brain sometimes.”

Afternoon turns to dusk and Geralt doesn’t return. They eat a meal of rabbits and wild mushrooms and still Geralt doesn’t reappear. It’s not like the White Wolf to wander off alone for so long and Jaskier becomes increasingly concerned as the evening creeps in. Geralt knows better than to stray too far from his pack, especially when there’s an unknown threat to contend with. 

The frogs are just beginning to sing when the tranquility of the evening is marred by a rumbling and deeply unsettling roar. It rattles around in Jaskier’s bones and makes something deep inside him cower in instinctual terror. It’s like nothing he’s ever heard before and he feels frozen on the spot, like a helpless prey animal before a dripping maw.

Eskel and Lambert are on their feet even before the roar has finished reverberating around their little camp. Lambert immediately takes off in the direction the horrible sound while Eskel turns to face Jaskier long enough to say,

“Do  _ not _ follow us, Bard.”

And then he’s gone as well.

Jaskier likes to think he’s an easy traveling companion. He’s delightful company, pulls his own weight, pays his own way, and polishes the reputations of witchers everywhere with his music. He does admit to one shortcoming, however, which is his inability to sit still when he knows there’s a grand battle unfolding, the likes of which is just begging to be immortalized in song. 

It’s for science, for history, for precious posterity, even, that Jaskier leaps to his feet, grabs his rucksack, checks his boot for his hidden dagger, and jogs determinedly into the brush. 

\--

It’s properly dark by the time Jaskier finally catches the sounds of a fight close by. He can hear indistinct yelling, the clang of swords, and the roar of what he assumes must be the creature they’re after, just as deeply disturbing as the first time. Oddly, he can also see light up ahead, though he’s very deep in uninhabited forest. As he draws closer, he realizes the light is coming from several small fires in the tops of the surrounding trees. Either the beast breathes fire or someone has let loose with Igni. Neither option bodes well, but the flames at least provide enough light for him to see with his feeble human eyes. 

Suddenly, he’s hit with a wave of fear. Geralt never came back to camp. What if he’d encountered the beast on his own? Would he have been able to hold out against it long enough for Eskel and Lambert to arrive? Ice cold dread spreads sharply throughout Jaskier’s body. 

He crouches behind a bush and reaches out to comb his way through the foliage to get a glimpse of the battlefield. More fires dot the trees around the small clearing. He immediately spots Eskel and Lambert, who both look exhausted and injured. Lambert is favoring his right leg while Eskel has one hand on his sword and the other clamped tight over what looks like a fresh burn on his neck. They look broken and haunted in ways Jaskier has never seen them before. 

His eyes dart to the opposite side of the battlefield, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dreaded beast before he’s forced to retreat. What he sees makes his heart stutter to a stop in his chest. 

Geralt stands beside the corpse of what must be the beast, breathing like a horse run ragged. The flickering light of the fires reveals he’s covered in blood as well as the tell-tale black spider-webbed veins that mean he’s riding the high of a potion. His eyes are black like tar and even from a distance Jaskier can find no hint of warmth within them. Still, at the sight of his friend alive and whole, Jaskier breathes a shaky sigh of relief. Geralt must hear the exhale and turns his head slightly in search of the sound. 

Jaskier has seen Geralt under the influence of potions before. He’s no stranger to the veins and the eerily blank black eyes. But this feels fundamentally different. Geralt’s gaze is cold and more than slightly unhinged, without a single hint of recognition. Jaskier has never looked at Geralt, or any witcher, and felt fear before. Now, Geralt’s predatory stare freezes him in place even as Jaskier’s instincts scream at him to  _ run run run _ . 

Geralt lifts his face slightly, inhaling noisily, scenting the air. Zeroing in on Jaskier. Another bloodcurdling bestial roar has the bard sinking to his knees in all consuming terror and sudden understanding. It hasn’t been the creature producing that terrible inhuman sound. 

It’s  _ Geralt _ .

Jaskier can’t move. Fear has paralyzed his limbs and made his tongue like lead in his mouth. He watches, feeling like he’s floating somewhere above his own body, as Geralt begins to charge toward him, lips curled back in a viscous snarl. He’s going to die here, he thinks distantly. He’s going to die and it’s going to be at the hands of his closest friend and there won’t be anyone to sing about the poetic irony and tragedy of it all. 

Something knocks Geralt off his feet, only seconds away from the feral witcher reaching Jaskier’s hiding spot and tearing him to shreds. When Jaskier recovers enough of his wits to think coherently again, he sees that Eskel has thrown himself across the clearing and collided with Geralt. They lay on the forest floor, grappling, Geralt snarling in fury and Eskel silent aside from grunts of effort and pain. 

Something grabs at Jaskier’s shoulder and the bard nearly passes out in fear, but it’s Lambert, apparently also having spotted him. His injuries look worse up close. His leg is bleeding freely from several gashes that tore right through the reinforced panels and his breaths are quick and shallow, like he’s winded. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” he grits out between clenched teeth.

“What’s happening? What’s, gods, what’s wrong with him? How--”

“No time. You need to go, now, before he tosses Eskel off again. Try to cover your tracks. Don’t wait for us.”   
  
Lambert struggles to stand up straight on his bloodied leg and moves into a ready position, sword held defensively. It’s his silver blade, Jaskier notices. Silver for monsters. 

There’s a yelp, closely followed by a heavy thud and an ominous cracking sound as Eskel’s back hits a nearby tree and splinters it. Lambert curses loudly and moves to tag in for Eskel, who lies still where he fell. 

Jaskier may not understand the situation, but he’s not about to abandon his witchers when he isn’t sure they’ll walk away from this encounter. He scrambles to get his legs to listen to him and stumbles clumsily to Eskel’s side, trying to keep one eye on Lambert and Geralt. Lambert has always been the quickest of them and his reflexes and sharp eye seem to be giving him the upper hand for the moment, despite his bad leg. Geralt fights like a man possessed, like a wounded animal, all lunges and bared teeth. None of his familiar combat technique or cool headed strategy is present in his wild movements. 

Tearing his eyes away from the fight, Jaskier tries to assess Eskel’s wounds. Compared to Lambert, it seems Eskel has taken the brunt of Geralt’s assault. He has a black eye, his eyebrow split above it, pouring blood down the side of his face. His neck does indeed sport a burn, but it covers Eskel’s neck and continues down into the tattered collar of his chest armor. Almost as if…

“Did Geralt do all this to you?” Jaskier whispers, barely daring to touch Eskel for fear of hurting him further.

The scarred witcher grunts in pain and pushes himself upright.

“Told you to stay put.”

“I’m possibly regretting my decision to ignore you now, you’ll be happy to hear.”

Eskel tries to laugh but it turns into a cough almost immediately. 

“We’re well and truly fucked, Bard. If you make it out of here alive tonight, this will make one hell of a song.” Eskel says, and turns his face to spit blood in the grass. 

“What’s  _ happened _ ? Is this something to do with the creature?” 

Eskel eyes him for a moment, hesitant. 

“Geralt ran into the thing alone. Dosed himself with something strong. Stronger than the usual potions. He’d killed it by the time we found him but…” Eskel waves his hand at the scene in front of them. 

“It’s a potion that’s done this to him?” 

Eskel nods and Jaskier feels the first stirrings of hope in his chest. Eskel and Lambert had taken off from their camp in a hurry, taking nothing but their swords. Time spent among witchers who oftentimes seemed to fancy themselves invincible had taught Jaskier to always be prepared. He wrenches his rucksack around to his front to rifle through it and smiles triumphantly as he finds the vial he’s looking for. 

Eskel’s eyes widen when he catches a glimpse of the potion Jaskier has found, but he doesn’t seem to share in the bard’s optimism. 

“White Honey? It could work, or it could do nothing. Could kill him, too.” the scarred witcher muses.

“I hate to interrupt your very important and necessary conversation but I could use some help over here!” Lambert yells, making Eskel wince and Jaskier startle. 

The youngest witcher limps in earnest now, slowed by blood loss and exhaustion, but Geralt appears as energized and wild eyed as before. He lands a solid punch to Lambert’s middle and he flies backward, boots scraping the ground, but remains on his feet. Eskel sucks in a sharp breath as he attempts to stand and Jaskier quickly ducks under his arm to support him. He feels the warmth of Eskel’s lips near his ear as he speaks.

“Listen, it’s going to take both me and Lambert to hold Geralt long enough to get that White Honey down his throat. We won’t have an arm or strength to spare so--”

“I’ll do it.”

“Jaskier--”

“I swear on Melitele’s magnificent left tit, if one more witcher tells me something is too dangerous today I am going to be  _ very  _ upset.”

Eskel manages a weak laugh this time and shakes free of Jaskier’s supporting arm. 

“So be it, then. Wait for my signal.”

There’s no time left for theatrics or technique. Eskel gets a running start and body checks Geralt as hard as he can. They land together in a heap, Geralt thrashing and clawing at anything he can reach and howling once more in rage. Lambert abandons his sword and follows Eskel’s example, leaping atop his brothers and grabbing onto any part of Geralt he can reach. Even with the combined strength of two witchers, it takes an agonizing several minutes of struggle for Eskel and Lambert to wrestle Geralt into a hold they can maintain. Geralt shrieks and spits and snarls the entire time, truly behaving as if he’s a rabid animal. 

Eskel winds a hand into Geralt’s hair and yanks hard, pulling his face off the ground and exposing his throat. 

“Jaskier!” 

The bard sprints forward, vial in hand, and drops to his knees by Geralt’s upturned face. Sweat has turned his silvery white hair a dank muddy grey and blood streaks his face. He bares his teeth at Jaskier, showing off elongated incisors, and growls deep and savage in his throat. There’s no trace of his friend left that he can see and he fights back the bile rising in his throat at the thought that he may never hear Geralt’s dry attempts at humor or see his soft half smiles again. 

He pries the cork from the vial, sends a quick prayer to whatever gods might be listening, and pushes the glass between Geralt’s lips. 

Predictably, Geralt isn’t thrilled at the prospect of being forced to drink. He sputters and spits and Jaskier is forced to shove his hands against the feral witcher’s mouth and nose to force him to swallow the concoction. Sharp teeth clamp down on Jaskier’s hands and he gasps in pain but doesn’t break his hold. Geralt continues to thrash violently for several more moments before he suddenly shudders and collapses like a puppet cut from its strings. 

For a moment, the forest is silent, holding its breath. Lambert breaks the spell with a heartfelt cry of “fuck!” and rolls over and off of Geralt. Eskel relaxes in increments, finally lowering Geralt’s head gently to the ground before sliding off the subdued witcher. Geralt remains still and pale like death and Jaskier reaches out without thinking to press fingers to his neck to check his pulse. It’s there, much too fast, but there. Geralt is alive. 

His fingers leave smudges of blood in their wake. Jaskier’s hands are a mess of bite wounds from Geralt’s fangs and they throb dully in the wake of the bard’s adrenaline rush. 

“Gentlemen,” he begins, addressing the two beaten and bloody witchers beside him.

“Would someone be so kind as to explain what the  _ hell _ just happened?”

\---

Between the three of them, they manage to drag Geralt’s unconscious body back to the campsite. The fire has burned down to nothing in their absence and Eskel relights it with a sign, casting everything in flickering shadows. They’re all disgusting and reek to high heaven of sweat and blood, but no one has the energy to even begin to think of bathing. Geralt is situated on his bedroll and stripped out of his ravaged armor. The black tendrils of toxicity still show through his skin despite the dose of White Honey and his eyes are still a void of black when Eskel pulls an eyelid back to check. 

Lambert slugs back a vial of Swallow, shucks out of his armor, and collapses on his own bedroll. He’s snoring before he’s fully horizontal. Eskel looks just as in need of rest but takes the time to methodically remove his armor and wipe away the worst of the blood from his face before he turns to Jaskier and looks pointedly at the bard’s hands. 

“You need those cleaned and bandaged.” He says, and his usually deep smooth voice sounds hoarse and grating. 

“And you need a nice long nap, witcher sir.” Jaskier quips back.

Eskel has the nerve to turn his exasperated brother look on him before digging through their medical supplies and producing disinfectant and linen strips. 

“Give them here,” Eskel rasps, “You won’t be able to do it properly on your own. Besides, I think I owe you an explanation.”

Jaskier’s concern for Eskel’s exhaustion wars with his intense need to know about the madness that had taken Geralt and his curiosity wins. He offers his bloody hands to Eskel, who takes them gently in his own larger ones and begins to clean the punctures. 

“Please understand that this isn’t something we discuss with outsiders. It’s not even something that’s often discussed among witchers. You’ve been with us a while now, proven your loyalty time and time again, and tonight you may well have saved Geralt’s life. As far as I’m concerned, you’re pack, which gives you a right to know.”

Jaskier’s heart is beating so hard he’s sure Eskel can hear it, but he doesn’t dare interrupt. The witcher pauses to set the disinfectant aside and begins wrapping Jaskier’s hands in linen before he continues. 

“You already know how our potions work. Some are for healing, some for enhancing the senses, some for increasing strength, and so on. All witchers use these brews and immunity to their poisonous nature is worked into our mutations. There’s a specific one that we treat as sort of a last resort. It’s called Bloodmoon. There is no immunity from its full effect. It increases strength to an enormous degree but at a terrible cost, as you saw tonight. It brings out the beast that lurks inside and takes away our ability to control ourselves.”

Eskel finishes with the bandages on one hand and gestures for Jaskier to bring his other hand close. 

“Geralt ran into that creature tonight alone. It overpowered him and he must have felt it was too close to the town, too much of a threat to others, to be allowed to escape.”

“He put himself through all that to protect innocent lives. People who would sooner spit on him than ever thank him for it.” Jaskier says softly, glancing over to where Geralt lay breathing quietly. 

“He’s always been a soft hearted bastard.” Eskel agrees, “That’s something they never were able to beat or mutate out of him. And they tried, mind you. You know Geralt went through the mutations twice? Ironically, the things that make him more a monster than any of us may have had a hand in keeping him alive back there.”

Jaskier is silent as Eskel pulls the last bandage tight and pats his hand lightly before turning to stow the supplies away. Lambert snores and Geralt breathes. 

“Eskel.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you really believe you’re a monster? You and Geralt and Lambert, you’re all just monsters in the guise of men?”

Eskel’s eyes catch and reflect the light of the fire, shining eerily in the semi-darkness. The scarring down the side of his face pulls at his upper lip, maring his once handsome features into a perpetual half grimace. He smiles but he looks sad.

“Go to sleep, Bard. It’s been a long night.”

Jaskier frowns at the nonanswer, but Eskel has already laid down and turned away. Soon enough his soft snores join Lambert’s and Jaskier is left alone with his thoughts. After a moment’s consideration, he grabs his own bedroll and drags it close to Geralt’s, settling down with scant inches separating them. He reaches out cautiously, afraid to disturb the man’s sleep, and lays a hand on his wrist. It’s more difficult to feel through the layers of bandages, but he can tell Geralt’s pulse has slowed back to it’s normal sluggish pace. The heat from his skin bleeds through the linen and makes Jaskier’s skin tingle. 

Around them in the darkness, the forest sings it’s chorus, and Jaskier thinks he’s never felt more safe or at peace than he does right now, surrounded by these extraordinary men. His pack. 


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt wakes up from a nightmare.

He can’t find it within himself to regret anything. He thinks maybe he should; there’s plenty he’s done in his long life worth regretting. But all that keeps repeating as Geralt loses coherency is the thought that they’ll be safe. Everyone will be safe. The town, his brothers, the bard, everyone. It’s a small sacrifice and one he’s more than happy to make. There is no coming back from this, he knows, as fire builds in his veins and begins to cloud his vision with red haze. He will die, but he will take this behemoth with him. 

Everyone will be safe. 

* * *

Red. Everything is red. 

There’s a metallic scent in the air and it stokes the flames that are burning him alive from the inside. He’s trying to scream, has been screaming, but there is only red. He knows nothing else. 

Once or twice something breaks through the red for a moment or two. A familiar face. Sounds and scents he recognizes on a primal level. There and gone before he can grab at the threads of sanity they tease him with. He’s still screaming, but there is still only red. 

Blood on his hands, blood in his mouth. Not his. 

He’s being held down. The fire rages and it’s burning his very soul, the deepest part of himself curling, blackening, and becoming ash like parchment in the face of an inferno. 

Everything is red and his screams go unanswered.

* * *

Geralt wakes in the earliest hours of the morning. The air smells of dew and the smoldering remains of a campfire. The sun has only barely touched the edges of the sky and the forest is still and silent. It’s blissfully peaceful. Geralt never expected to wake up again and he almost thinks this might be the afterlife until a rattling snore somewhere to his far right breaks the silence. 

Not dead, then. 

He attempts to sit up and immediately regrets it when every square inch of his body screams in protest. He feels like he was chewed up and spat out by a dragon, then roasted by its flame for good measure. Gods, he  _ hurts _ . A groan tries to escape his lips and he winces as his bone dry throat works to produce any type of sound. The result is a pathetic wheezing sort of cough that sets off movement in his peripheral vision. His eyes work slowly to focus on the face that comes into view a few short moments later. 

Eskel’s familiar features calm the rising panic in Geralt’s chest. He looks awful. Dark circles of exhaustion ring his golden eyes and a blood stained bandage peeks out from behind the hair sweat-matted to his forehead. Still, his brother’s calm gaze feels like a cooling balm and Geralt relaxes back into his bedroll. 

When he attempts to speak and all that comes out is another dry wheeze, Eskel wordlessly brings a water-skin to his lips. Geralt drinks slowly, savoring the sweet relief that the water brings to his parched mouth and throat. Eskel takes the water-skin away before Geralt has had his fill and his annoyance must show in his expression because Eskel smiles and gently swats at his face. 

“You’ll only throw it back up if you guzzle it down like that.” Eskel says quietly, and the sound of his low steady voice soothes the last of Geralt’s raw nerves. 

Geralt manages a passable huff this time. Eskel’s smile turns small and soft and he leans forward until his forehead bumps and presses against Geralt’s. A warm hand snakes under Geralt’s neck and grasps firmly at his nape. For a while, they share each other’s space and air. Eskel pulls back eventually, but he doesn’t go far, and the hand at the base of Geralt’s skull moves until it’s stroking soothingly through his hair. 

“Thought we were gonna lose you, wolf.”

Eskel sounds wrecked, emotion pulling at every word, and it makes Geralt’s heart squeeze in his chest. 

“Can’t get rid of me that easily.” Geralt replies, his voice scratchy and pitched low. It sounds like he’s been shouting or screaming, though he doesn’t remember doing either. 

“Geralt,” Eskel says, voice grave, “That godsdamn potion is supposed to be a one way ticket. You should be dead right now. When we realized what happened, what you’d done--”

“I did what I had to do.”

“You were a reckless bullheaded  _ prick _ .”

Eskel’s scorn is belayed by his soft tone. Geralt feels ten years old again listening to Eskel lecture him about his behavior. He’s always been a bit of a worrywart, a nurturing soul beneath his tough exterior, even as a boy at Kaer Morhen. Geralt regrets upsetting him so badly. 

“It was too close to the town. Too risky. Had to kill it then and there.” He tries to explain. 

“I know. I get it. Any of us would have done the same. Let me be angry with you for one second, Melitele’s sake.” 

They both laugh at that. When they settle again, Geralt tries once more to sit up. The ache in his body spikes, but eases back down to something bearable this time, and Eskel reaches out to steady him as he pulls himself into a sitting position. 

The sun has risen a bit higher and he’s easily able to make out the rest of the campsite in the dim morning light. Lambert, the source of the snoring from earlier, is sleeping peacefully a few feet away, sprawled messily on his blanket. He looks as worn and beaten as Eskel and his face sports what looks like a halfway healed black eye. His breaths are deep and even, despite the snoring. Geralt usually finds the sound annoying, but tonight it makes his lips curve up slightly in a barely-there smile. Lambert has snored terribly ever since he had talked back to the wrong person in his early days at the keep and had his nose broken. The resulting crooked healing left the surly witcher almost as loud in sleep as he was when he was awake. 

  
  


Geralt frowns when he doesn’t see the last occupant of their ragtag little group. Eskel catches the look and bobs his head in the other direction. Geralt turns slightly and is surprised to find Jaskier curled up so close to his own bedroll. The bard is practically on top of him, but so quiet and unassuming Geralt hadn’t noticed him until now. He looks tired, but unharmed, compared to Eskel and Lambert. Until Geralt catches sight of Jaskier’s hands.

_ Blood on his hands, blood in his mouth. Not his.  _

“It’s not your fault.” Eskel’s reassurance feels empty in the morning air. Jaskier’s hands are his livelihood, his connection to his music, and Geralt had  _ savaged _ them.

“He doesn’t blame you.”

“He can’t stay with us. This has been proof enough of that. We’re--I’m--a danger to him.” 

Eskel studies him intently before he speaks again.

“He’s the one who pulled you out of it. He poured White Honey down your throat with his bare hands. It didn’t even cross my mind to try. If he hadn’t been there, you would have very likely killed us all. Seems a bit rude to turn away the man who saved all our lives.” 

Geralt blinked, stunned into silence. Jaskier had saved him. Had willingly placed his hands into the maw of a raging beast to calm it’s rage. And he was still here, curled up next to the very thing that had hurt him, like there was no safer place for him to be. 

“Listen,” Eskel said around a jaw cracking yawn, “You can try telling the bard to leave in the morning, but you know as well as I do that he’s been part of this pack for a while now. You’ll lose that fight before it begins. Do everyone a favor and sleep on it before you make any rash decisions.” 

Eskel leans forward to affectionately bump their foreheads again.

“He’s seen the worst we have to offer, Geralt. And yet, here he is.”

With that, the scarred witcher backs away to crawl into his own bedroll where he promptly falls asleep, leaving Geralt to his thoughts. 

He looks down at Jaskier again. They’re all in desperate need of a good washing, but Jaskier’s blood streaked shirt and dirt smudged face batter especially hard against Geralt’s already weakened defences. The bard hates being anything less than freshly laundered and clean. The fact that he spared only the time to have his wounds tended and drag his bed close to Geralt’s before passing out illustrates how deeply exhausted he is. From saving Geralt. From saving them all. It’s still a lot to wrap his head around. 

Geralt slowly levers himself back down into the meager cushioning of his bedroll. The movement jostles Jaskier slightly, but he doesn’t wake. He makes a soft sound in his sleep and shuffles closer until he’s pressed flush and warm against Geralt’s side. Guilt builds heavy and sour in Geralt’s chest. He wants to reach out and touch the bard’s face. He wants to run far away so that he can never hurt the ones he cares for again. Eskel’s words ring in his head, over and over.

_ “And yet, here he is.” _

Humans don’t befriend witchers and they certainly don’t travel with them like they’re a band of merry adventurers. The Path isn’t glamorous or paved with gold and heroics the way Jaskier paints it as in his music. But beneath the overly dramatic and flowery metaphors, there’s real understanding that what witchers do is necessary and of value and worth praising and immortalizing. 

Jaskier aims to take monsters and turn them into men. 

As he drifts into sleep, Geralt thinks that one day he may be able to believe that he can.

**Author's Note:**

> And we're done! Thanks to everyone for your lovely comments and encouragements. Thanks in particular to @gotfanfiction for her support during my numerous breakdowns in trying to finish this story, and to Isabela and Table_Thighs for their beta work. I've picked at this so much by now that it's just time to set it loose into the world and hope for the best. Please know that I had designs on adding in a morning after scene where Jaskier wakes up and absolutely does give Geralt the verbal fight of his life when Geralt suggests he might be safer elsewhere. Eskel does a mean "I told you so" face.


End file.
